My eyes wander over our gear. How early did you get up? I ask, seeing three packs ready to go. One looks too heavy to carry, another looks manageable, and the last one looks pretty light. Russell doesn’t answer me and he wanders back over and says, That’s yours. Stove goes in it. Pack her up. Keep your gun ready. I look at the bags and wonder how the hell we’re going to move anywhere with all this. And why we need to take it. Something tells me that Russell isn’t positive that the Resilience will still be there waiting for us. And Ernest hasn’t said one word about it. So we can’t count on the ship for more supplies. And I know that must be why—if we don’t take whatever we can, we won’t last long on the open brown. I tell myself it’s more likely that we’ll be back on the mountains running in a circle, and never escape the snow.
What about the map? I ask. We have to figure out where we’re going? We’re going back to my ship, says Ernest, walking back from the window. The banging stops. He’s going around, mutters Ernest. Around back? asks Russell. Looks like it, Ernest replies. Damn, Russell says. And I remember that that’s where we have to go to get the boat.
But where to once we’re on the ship? I ask. If we get the ship, we sail south, Russell says. South! I say. I can’t help it. I remind him about the lines on the map. We can’t go south, I tell him. And before he can even respond, or Ernest, I tell him that we have to head west again, back toward Blue City. On to California. We’ll go west if the Resilience isn’t there, says Russell. Ernest remains quiet, as if he’s made up his mind about this too, and that I really don’t have any say. You said I have a say in this—and here it is—the lines on the map are ice! I tell him. I say that I was right about the radiation, and I’m right about this too. I was right about Leadville, and I’m right about the map.
How do you know that the lines mean there is ice there? And on the water? Russell says. He stops gathering his bags, pauses so that I know his full attention is on me. If you can argue a reason—and I’ll listen—we’ll change our plans. So convince us, he says.
Right away I feel bruised because he makes it sound lopsided—two against one. And it always used to be just Russell and me. But he seems to trust and respect Ernest so much, that if they believe together in this, there’s nothing I can say. A stacked deck. But I try anyway.
“She told me that the lines mean that the ice has come up from the south, all the way to the Rockies,” I say. Russell stares unaffected. Waiting for more. But I realize then that I have no more, and he’s told me last night that he thinks she’s a liar. The snow walkers are all liars. And they’re face eaters. But he doesn’t have to say it, he just produces a piece of paper. From this morning, he says. We found it in the computer room. He shows me the paper and I grab it from his hand. On it is printed a miniature version of the lined map. A tiny Colorado, next to which is a tiny map of America. The lines look the same and I don’t get how this does anything but strengthen my own point. I see the pyramid-shaped spread of dotted lines fall down in two widening lines from about where we are now—Platteville, Colorado. Read it, Russell says, noticing my face hasn’t changed. I look and find the tiny print at the bottom.
****World Climate Advisory from Mexico City****
Ice Spread Forecast over 3-5 years.
…given current information, if axial shift continues…
This says it is ice! I say. But then Russell’s hand glides in and he points to a date on the paper. I see it and can’t believe it. He’s right. Five years ago, he says, It’s bullshit. She didn’t know about it, and neither did anyone else here. Not since the original population left, he continues. Ernest clarifies for Russell and says that if we didn’t meet ice on the ocean outside these mountains, which is well within the ice lines on those maps, then the forecast must be off. And, what I remember of weather readings, Ernest continues, is that unless they’re about something that’s three days away—not three to five years—they might as well be worthless. I stop and let this sink in, wondering why it doesn’t dispel my fear right away. Something seems wrong about it, even though on the paper everything they’re saying makes perfect sense.
So where in the south? I finally ask. Russell’s eyes light up. Leadville, he says. Ernest looks down, like this is the part of the idea he didn’t agree with. But this is Leadville, I remind him. He tells me it’s Platteville, and it’s not the highest elevation. Look, he says. He points to an elevation marker on the paper in my hand. It shows Leadville as the highest point. Everything we heard, it had to be about this place, didn’t it? Why would it be called New Leadville? I ask. Russell tells me he doesn’t know, but that he’s not convinced. Leadville will probably be a bust, he admits, but it’s on the way anyway. On the way where? I ask, realizing there’s more to their plan than they told me. Ernest looks up and says it: Mexico City. I try to conjure such a place in my mind, or how many thousands of miles away it must be. An impossibility.
Ernest says there is a chain of volcanic mountains there. But why not west? I ask. If we see Leadville and it’s the real place, why not go west from there? We know it’s raining at least in the West. Russell starts into his story again about the Pacific ocean, one giant vortex of foam, and how we don’t want to get anywhere near it. I tell him that’s no good because there’s nothing to back that story up—nothing more than any of our other stories. But then Ernest tells me he’s heard it too—the same warning: Don’t go too far west. I feel like I can’t reason with them anymore, because all I have to go on are my gut instincts. I don’t have any more facts to give. Instead I ask if we can wait and try to search for more information here in Nuke Town, something to better inform our decision. Because I don’t know if one direction seems better than any other, and I even mention going back to Philadelphia as a good option. Russell ignores me and says there’s more information they found about the disaster here and that we shouldn’t stay any longer. The radiation levels are way too high. And that from what he’s read this morning, if I hadn’t killed the snow walkers, they were going to all die on their own anyway. The radiation was already at work on their insides.
I fall silent and put the stove in my bag. One way is as good as another I tell myself. And reaching after reason is pointless anyway. There is no reason left. I drop the bag all of the sudden because I feel like I need to let Russell know something. Ernest there or not, I don’t care.
“I just want to find a place that we can stop. Stop moving. I don’t care where it is. I just want to stay still,” I say. He throws his bag over his shoulder and limps toward me, putting his arm on my shoulder. Tanner, he says. I look up and he must see my tears starting. Not from sadness or grief or anger. It’s all I feel now just to be done. Done the never-ending going, scavenging, clinging. Like the picture of life in my mind hits so hard against reality that I can’t stop it from cracking.
“I promised you we’ll find a home, didn’t I?” he says. I nod, and my eyes drift to Voley who watches us with interest. “Well I haven’t given up on that. That’s the goal here. To stop. You still believe it, right?”
I tell him I do, and nod my head. He brings me in close against his body, and some part of me knows that each of us are trusting each other where there is no common sense or knowledge to guide it. A fool’s trust. Stubborn hope. A noise shatters our hug, somewhere deep inside some part of the Nuke facility’s skeleton.
Sounds like he got in, says Ernest. Russell nods, slinging his backpack over his shoulder, moving the rifle into position in his hands. Ernest grabs his own bag, the heaviest of the three, and then the floor is clear of stuff except for Voley. At first Ernest and Russell begin to walk and leave Voley there, and everything in my mind drops out and fills suddenly with rage. But before I can say anything, in my quick belief that they plan on leaving Voley behind, Ernest comes back, and somehow with his heaviest pack, he lifts up Voley under his right arm. And in his left he leads with his gun. Russell follows close by his side, and I walk after them.
We start to descend the dim gray rails, making th
e creaking bones of the building start to talk, to tell the last snow walker where we are, just as his own echoing movements tell us he’s coming. And maybe we’ll just pass by him in the quiet shadows. No one will know the other has slipped by.
As we pass down stair after stair, and then reach the corridor to one of the back doors, leading out to the snow, I believe we actually did make it by. He didn’t hear us after all. Because as we open the door to meet the blasting wind, the noises of the snow walker’s footsteps are far behind us now, in some other part of the building. And before we can get the door closed behind us, and enter completely into the numbing white, he lets out a gasp. We all hear it. Something he’s recognized. And I know it must be his daughter by the sound.
Chapter 18
Russell slowly leads us toward an alley between two high walls. Everything is blinding white, sky and ground, except for the gray cement. The wind drives us down, working snow into our eyes and mouths. I’m wearing everything I have, keeping the bag of supplies slung over my left shoulder. Each step sends a jolt through the right side of my body, activating the pain in my arm and stomach. I feel like we’re up against the impossible, that there’s no way we can walk miles through this. Russell moves slower than anyone, but it’s only his ankle I tell myself. It’ll heal soon. And then he stops dead still, confused, trying to remember which way to go. I feel pressure mounting, like the longer we wait here, out in the open, the longer the last snow walker has to find us. Track us down and get revenge. I look over my shoulder, back at the door we came out through. No sign of anyone coming.
Where was it? Ernest shouts over a blast of wind, trying to get Russell to keep moving. He coughs and pulls Voley close into his chest. On his other side he has our biggest bag, pounds of the dog food and whatever else they gathered this morning while I slept, all slung over his shoulder. Russell doesn’t respond and keeps looking. It was right here, he says. We all stand still. Nowhere to go.
I reach into my pocket with my left hand and feel the cold steel of the pistol through my gloves. My fingers run over its groove and then I look back at the door again. Paranoia telling me it will open any second. But there’s no way the old man could have known we left, or that we were even still there. He never heard us. My mind flashes back to my dream. The man in the corner. What if…I push the thought away. That somehow he did watch us sleep last night. But that he left when they woke up. Just to see what we were. Before he figured out what we did to his daughter. A fresh blast hits me, stinging my cheeks, and drives out the insane fears. And at last, Russell makes a move. We start to trudge on again.
I keep my head moving—side to side, back to front. Each boot sinks then rises naturally, I’m so used to the awkward motion of knifing through the soft powder that acts like a suction when you try to lift out. The top snow reaches almost up to our waists, but a hard layer of ice deep down lets us walk on. Up ahead it will level off, says Russell, as if he knows. We’re in a drift, he shouts back to Ernest and me. Like he wants to reassure us that leaving in this weather really is the right move. And then, we turn a corner, and there it is. A great mound of white right in the middle of the widening snow field that leads off into nothingness. Behind us is the high curving tower, untouchable in the foggy sky, and the cold square body of the industrial building. My eyes meet every window one more time, expecting to see a dark shadow watching. From here they all look the same—white reflections of the snow. No way to see inside.
Russell bounds forward and yelps in pain, moving too fast for his leg. He’s excited that he hasn’t lost his mind, that the boat really is still there. Come on, he yells, and Ernest drops Voley into the snow. Voley looks back at me, his eyes roaming over my face and arms. And then he drops his head and tastes the snow, just one lick. It’s enough to satisfy him, and then his nose starts going. Checking for trails. More foxes that may have passed through here. And I move into the mound, kneel down, and help dig.
Together we reach, handful after handful, until the spine of the boat comes through. Once the entire hull is open to the wind, I stand back and take a deep, painful breath. The frost rises from my mouth, condensing into fog and blending into the emptiness all around. This is too small, I say. And I know they have to know it too, but it’s like there’s no other choice, and they ignore me, finishing up the last bit of digging. Finally, the whole thing is excavated, and Russell sits down to catch his own breath. Voley is starting to shiver uncontrollably because he can’t move—each time he tries to rise so that his body can move, and shake to warm itself, he whines and drops back to the ground. But he keeps trying, maybe because the snow has numbed his legs too much. I rush over to him and tell it’s okay, that we’re going to be moving again soon. But when I look at Russell and Ernest, and how exhausted they both look, I realize we’re not going anywhere soon.
My eyes return to the building behind us for the hundredth time. The wind has kicked up so much that the sideways snow is making it hard to see the top of the cooling tower anymore. I can see its curve, where it pinches in on itself, but the top where it widens is lost to clouds. Each strand of moving white cloud speeds along like it’s at the spinning edge of some giant cyclone. Come on, I say. We have to keep moving guys. I wait for them to show signs of life. Ernest rises from his bent-over heavy breathing and looks at me. She’s right, he says. We can’t wait. Then Russell says that we’re going to have to take breaks along the way, there’s no other way we can make it all the way with the boat.
I start to think of the path we’re taking, and it hits me that we have no idea if we’ll ever even get out of the mountains. What do we have to go on? I say, To find the harbor? All at once it dawns on me that the path to the East Harbor has to be long gone. Something used back when it was still raining here. And now, there’s no trail. No way to know to get there. I tell this to Russell in fear, because our only options all of the sudden are to turn back, into the building, or to go the way we know leads to the Resilience—Clemmy’s trail.
Map, Russell says. He slowly grabs his knees with his hands, and grunting, he rises to his feet. He bends down, calling Ernest to help him, and together they flip the boat. It looks like it will hold Russell and me at the most. Like Ernest could never fit in it with us. And then I remember Voley has to go in too. But maybe we’ll all fit if we lie on top of each other. And it doesn’t sink from the weight.
Russell digs into his pocket, and clamping hard because the wind is trying to rip it from him, he passes me the map. Ernest bends down and rescues Voley from the frostbite that’s crawling through his skin and muscles as I read the paper. It’s just another line. Very vague. A long stretch of dots leading away from a square, and a lot of looping circles all around. Elevation markings. And then, a shaded gray mass all the way on the right. The water. The corner of the map has a centimeter marked off that reads: 1 mile. The dotted line looks about 10 centimeters to the gray mass but I can’t be sure. And all around the line are jagged peaks with little danger signs. The elevations drop steeply around the trail, I tell Russell. If we get lost…
My real thought isn’t relief. It’s even more fear than before, because I can’t see how we’ll ever stick to this path. I hand the paper back to Russell, waiting for him to say something. And then I ask another question: How do we know how to stay on the line? I say. The line’s straight, he says, and then he tells me to grab the other end of the boat. I step slowly to the stern and wipe away enough snow and ice to get a grip on it. What’s that mean? I say, A Straight line won’t do us any good out here. It only takes him a second to reply: The tower, he says. His eyes drift up to the half-concealed giant. Just hope the rest of it doesn’t disappear, he tells me, and then commands that we start moving. Just Russell and me carrying it, because Ernest can’t help with Voley in his arms.
Everything happens in slow motion. Each step, compared to what I thought was hard before, is now excruciating. I dig in and push against the back of the boat, trying to lift it. We only make it three steps before I�
�m out of breath. You slide it, Ernest tells me when I stop. Slide, and he demonstrates with his hands. Russell and I drop the boat onto the top layer of the snow and I begin to just push, no lifting. All of the sudden the movement is only slightly harder than without the boat. Something tells me Russell is doing way more than his share, but he doesn’t groan or complain. Every once and a while the nose dips into soft pack, and we have to lift it back up, but then it starts gliding again. The wind rips into us, and Ernest follows behind the new trail we create. When I look back to check on Voley, and make sure he’s warm against Ernest’s chest, I also see something behind Ernest. Moving. A lone form moving in the white, trailing us from about one hundred feet away. He’s there! I shout. Russell lets go of the boat and turns around. Right away Ernest springs forward, seeing the man too, and he flips the boat onto its side, letting Voley down into the snow before he flips it. Voley sinks in, almost so that only his head is above the snow line. Get behind! Ernest shouts. And together, Russell, Ernest and I hide behind the wall of the boat, the wind and snow running into our backs, and watch the old man come toward us.
The Snow (A Post-Apocalyptic Story) Page 17
